


How To Lie In Three Easy Lessons

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: House M.D., Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Crossover, Gen, Lies, Office Party, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-14
Updated: 2010-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lying is a skill.  Cal should know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Lie In Three Easy Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I played loose with the definition of "bar".

Cal tugged his collar then shoved his hands in his pockets. So here they were, at some hospital in Princeton, New Jersey, attending a pediatric charity benefit. Gillian had insisted they attend as a favor to her college friend. He despised these black tie benefits, but at least it meant free drinks, he thought. And yeah, after all the time she's spent covering for him lately, he could bloody well endure a few hours of fake smiles on her behalf.

He scanned the hospital lobby, looking for Gillian. The usual knots of guests, with their usual complement of lies, were scattered around the lobby. Many held flutes of champagne; all were well on their way to paralytic. A graying man sat at the piano, engrossed in his playing; beside him, a black cane with an elaborate silver handle leant against the bench.

He finally spied Gillian by the reception desk, laughing with a slim, dark-haired woman in a deep blue, low-cut gown. Lisa Cuddy, he remembered: Gillian's friend, the Dean of Medicine. Nice, he thought appreciatively as he traced her curves. He let himself linger over Gillian's figure for a moment: Gillian, in her plum-colored sheath, was as gorgeous (and as untouchable) as ever.

Eventually he settled on a table set back by the far wall, and the table's lone occupant, a brown-haired bloke drumming his fingers on the white tablecloth. Couldn't blame him; he'd rather be at a pub playing darts himself. He'd rather be anywhere else. Still, here was someone to commiserate with, at least. He sauntered over to the table.

"Oy, this seat taken?"

The man shrugged and waved his hand. Cal pulled out a chair with a loud scrape on the floor. The man startled at that; he squinted at him, and did a double take.

He waggled his finger at him. "I know you. You're the lie detection guy," the man said. "Cal Lightman, right? You wrote the book, _Lies We Tell_. I saw your interview on CNN."

Cal grinned. "I love it when my reputation precedes me."

The man rose and proffered his hand. "James Wilson."

They shook hands, then Cal sank into the chair; he cocked his head, signaling to a passing waiter.

"I'd like a beer," he said; eying the tumbler in front of Wilson he added, "and another of what my friend's drinking."

The waiter nodded and hurried off. Cal turned back to Wilson.

"I hate benefits," Cal said. "Everyone pretends to enjoy themselves, but d'you see how the smiles don't match their eyes? Who really wants to be here with all the glad-handing? Now me, I'd just send a bloody envelope with my donation and be done with it."

"I take it you're not here of your own volition?"

He pointed at Gillian and Dr. Cuddy. "My partner--my business partner, there--she's friends with the Dean." He glanced at Gillian again. She looked happy, relaxed, more so than he'd seen her in a long time. "She's saved my arse a few times. Figure I owed her this."

At that moment the waiter re-appeared with their drinks. Cal reclined, loose-limbed, and sipped his ale. Wilson began to drum his fingers on the table again, looking around nervously. Cal noticed how Wilson's glances kept sliding to the piano player.

Wilson opened and closed his mouth, looking like he wanted to ask a question. After a minute of clear uncertainty, he took a deep breath and finally asked, "So--how accurate are your methods for lie detection?"

Cal cocked his head. "About seventy per cent. Course, with me you're looking more at ninety-five, ninety-eight, so--"

He did not miss the slight flash of apprehension on Wilson's face. "I'll know when you're hiding something," he added, "but what you're hiding, now that's up to you." He raised his eyebrows, grinning, and Wilson squirmed. "Why d'you ask?"

"I'm just curious." Wilson rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at the flat surface of the table.

"You're lying." Cal gestured at the motion. "Now what you're doing there, we call a 'tell.' Rubbing your neck says you're lying your arse off. You'd know that if you'd read my book. And you haven't read it, have you."

Wilson grimaced and lowered his hand. "Nothing gets past you."

"Nope."

Wilson nodded, appearing resigned, and he heaved a sigh. "Look, I know this'll sound crazy, but--can you teach me how not to get caught?"

Cal blinked, then recovered and shrugged. "Depends." He leaned in closer. "Why?"

Wilson smiled tightly. "Let's just say I have a friend who's ruthless at ferreting out the truth." He stared the corner where the pianist had just swung into a jazz melody. "And there are things I really can't let him find out."

I bet there is, Cal thought, watching the complex mix of emotions swirl over Wilson's features: admiration, love, guilt. In fact, Wilson was a beacon of guilt, that anyone should have been able to pick up.

"Ruthless, is he? I'd like to meet him. Give him a run for his money."

Wilson snorted; his expression then turned deadly earnest, almost pleading. "So what do I do?"

Cal sipped his beer and searched for Gillian in the crowd. She was still talking to Dr. Cuddy. Good. She didn't need to know about this.

"Right then, lying so's not to get caught. Try to keep up." Wilson leaned in and nodded in rapt attention.

"So. Lying is a skill. The trick to successful lying is always be aware of what you're feeling before you tell one. Facial expressions and body language can leak emotion when your feelings don't match what you're saying. We look for those leaks when we're figuring out if someone's trying to hide something."

Wilson nodded, his brow furrowed, clearly memorizing Cal's speech. Cal continued, "Good liars learn to control their body language. Like, when you talk, you emphasize words with your hands. We call those 'illustrators.' Most liars have to concentrate on what they're saying to keep it straight. They'll stop illustrating and start performing unconscious actions, like tugging their earlobe, or rubbing their neck. Those are 'manipulators' or 'tells' that we talked about earlier."

Wilson nodded.

"And don't stare into your accuser's eyes," Cal said, pinning Wilson with his gaze. "Dead giveaway. People telling the truth look away directionally, upwards when they're trying to remember." Cal mimicked the eye movements.

Wilson looked thoughtful.

"Last pro tip," Cal said, "is rehearse your lies forwards and backwards. Most liars only bother rehearsing forwards. When we ask them to recount events in reverse, they tend to mix them up. People telling the truth order the events correctly."

Wilson stared at the piano player for a long moment, as if he were going through a mental checklist. He turned back to Cal, incredulous. "I've--been doing everything wrong for years," he said. "House notices everything. I mean everything. His motto is 'Everybody lies.' He should have caught me hundreds of times by now. Why hasn't he?"

There it was. Cal shrugged. "Probably because he sees only what he wants to see."

Wilson's eyes flickered with surprise. "So he knows?"

"Oh yeah, at some level he knows exactly what's going on." Cal stared at Gillian. "They always do. Just don't want to admit they're lying to themselves." Under his breath he added, "'Cause that's the worst."

"Great," Wilson sighed. "I'm screwed."

"If he hasn't called you on it yet," Cal said, "then confronting the lie is riskier for him than letting it go. As long as no one draws attention to it--and you don't do anything monumentally stupid--you're fine. When that happens, the blinkers will come off and yeah, you're fucked, mate."

"Well, that's--good to know," Wilson said, "I think. Thanks."

"Yeah. Don't mention it."

Wilson looked at his hands, and muttered something Cal couldn't quite hear. It almost sounded like, "I don't have a choice." He looked up again and said more clearly, "Look, do I owe you--?"

Cal waved his hand. "Buy my book."

"Done."

At that moment, Gillian stepped up to the table; Cal felt her slim hand settle on his shoulder.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Cal lolled his head back and smirked. "Oh, you bet, love. My favorite kind of party."

Gillian pursed her lips in Cal's favorite, slightly vexed look, and nodded at Wilson. "Dr. Wilson, hello. It's nice to see you again. I hope Cal hasn't been boring you."

"Not at all."

"Good. Cal, there are some people I'd like you to meet."

Cal rolled his eyes, but he couldn't ignore her tone; he sat up straight, ready to leave. "Well, that's my cue," he said. "Nice talking to you. Remember what I said."

"I will. Thanks."

Cal rose; as he did, Gillian grabbed his elbow and propelled him away. At the same time, the music ended; the man at the piano grabbed his cane, pushed himself off the bench and limped back to Wilson's table. He stared at Cal as they passed each other. Cal briefly wondered why Wilson felt so obligated, then put it out of his mind. There were too many other lies hiding at this benefit he had to endure. Silently he wished Wilson luck, pasted a smile on his own face, and steeled himself for his next meeting. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
